


Weapon

by romanticalgirl



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted 8-9-06</p>
    </blockquote>





	Weapon

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 8-9-06

He sees her across the hall and scowls in her direction, irritation etched into his features. She gives him a look of pure disdain and turns, her gown flowing around her like so much fine cloth. Growling under his breath, he deposits the last of the wounded on the makeshift bed and then starts toward her, taking slim pleasure in the fact that she glances back to check his progress.

She is bare and elegant like a bow, the string drawn taut in battle. Whippet thin and smooth in ways that only women and children can be, but there’s an edge beneath her skin, sharp and tight that cuts into your fingers and leaves them worn and bleeding.

Stepping around and over the wounded, he closes the distance, blocking out the low, keening cries likely to be last words for many who lie on the floor around him. He has honed himself to be as sharp and broad as his swords, cutting on both edges lest anyone draw to close. He cannot live with the cool indifference of the bow, but neither does he wish the blood shed to be his.

He does not say her name. It has never fallen from his lips and never will, but he touches her elbow, not caring that his blood-stained fingers leave marks on her dress. She looks over her shoulder and gives him a quick glance. “Are you wounded?”

“No.”

“Then you’re the least of my concerns.” She turns back to the man in front of her and Lancelot waits for a brief moment before he takes her arm again and guides her out of the hall, ignoring the barbs of her protests. She swings at him and he catches her hand, using the leverage it lends him to drive her back against the stone wall. His fingers tighten on her elbow, and his other hand curves around hers as her nails dig into his flesh. “Let me go.”

“Ask me again.”

She stares at him for a long moment, mutiny in her eyes. She hates to give him satisfaction, but does not know how to deny it either. “Are you wounded?”

He moves in closer, body pressed against hers. Leather and cloth and hard and soft. She is drawn tight and he is unsheathed, both of them prepared for battle. Her breath is warm on his lips, on the silver glint of his smile. He wonders where her arrow will fall, which defenseless part of him she will pierce. 

He shakes his head. “Not yet.”


End file.
